Many workers come from areas dominated by drug cartels and also pay additional fees to protect their relatives in Mexico.

José Ramón Huaracha is the brother of Antonio Huaracha, who since December 2015 has been the general manager of Larsen Farms in Dalhart. In 2011, Blaine Larsen himself transferred the brothers from the Idaho headquarters to Texas to establish and operate the new plant.

Other members of the Huaracha family also work for the company: their father is a tractor driver and three more siblings work for the company; one is in charge of the trucks, another is an operator and sometimes works the land and a third performs support and monitoring functions in the field.

Rebecca Guerra, Larsen’s former human resources manager, says that a culture of “corruption” and “favoritism” imposed by the Huaracha family prevails at Larsen Farms. They decide who is hired and who receives privileged treatment. “You have to have the last name Huaracha to be accepted or you have to be well known to them in order to be someone,” she claims.

Antonio (second to the left) and José Ramón Huaracha (first to the right) in a family photo. Source: anonymous.

Guerra’s position allowed her to communicate constantly with employees. She says she spoke with at least five workers who had H-2A visas and were accepted into the company on the same terms as Pablo. In all cases, payment was made to the same supervisor, José Ramón Huaracha, in amounts between $1,500 and $4,000.

Guerra explains that she met with employees outside the company for fear of retaliation, who told her how the visa payment scheme worked: “They begged me not to tell anyone,” she says. “I wanted to report it, but I was scared, thinking that [José Ramón] would punish or threaten me. So I never said anything.”

In April 2020, Univision informed the company in writing of the allegations against José Ramón Huaracha collected during eight months of investigation and employee interviews, and requested an interview. A week after learning of the allegations, Larsen traveled to the Dalhart processor and contacted Univision.

“Ramón resigned, he is no longer with the company,” Blaine Larsen said during a telephone interview on April 23, 2020, adding that he was “shocked” to learn the details of the accusations against one of his Dalhart supervisors.

In an April 24 interview with Univision, José Ramón Huaracha explained that beginning in 2017 he oversaw the lists of people who came to work for the company from Mexico under the H-2A visa program, and he was also the farm and field operations manager. He recorded the names of people “recommended” by managers or other employees: “To those who gave me names, I would say: ‘If this person isn’t good or performs poorly, are you willing to lose your job?’ Many agreed, others backed out.”

Later, José Ramón Huaracha would speak to applicants over the phone, asking them if they had the skills to do the job well. He would tell them: “I trust your word, but we’ll see if you can earn your keep or not,” he said.

Amid accusations from employees and former employees that point to him as being at the forefront of the sale of visas at Larsen Farms, José Ramón Huaracha resigned in a handwritten letter to the human resources department. He said he did not save a copy of the letter: “I said I was resigning because they were speaking unjustly about me and because I wanted to be with my family.”

That same day, he visited the homes of a number of Larsen Farms workers with two other supervisors, including one of his brothers, to inform them of his resignation. According to various sources, he made one last threat: “If you speak, it won’t go well for you.”

José Ramón Huaracha denied that he intimidated or threatened employees that day. “I spoke to people and told them clearly: ‘I am going to stop working with Larsen, and I’m leaving Larsen because of these reasons and this is not true,’” he said. “I told them: ‘I am leaving, you have to work hard to keep your jobs, because I’m not going to be there anymore.’”

The document explains that special agents in charge of the investigation—from the Labor Department—interviewed seven employees and former employees of the company between May 27 and June 18 who described a “pay to play” scheme used by José Ramón Huaracha to collect between $1,000 and $1,500 from each worker to be included in the list of those hired with H-2A visas.

“Huaracha, his family members in Mexico and other surrogates of his choosing approached prospective H-2A recruits in Mexico and current H-2A workers on the job at Larsen Farms to tell them that they would need to pay Huaracha to get their names placed on a list Huaracha controlled that was used by Larsen Farms to obtain names of workers for the purpose of sponsoring them for H-2A visas the next farming season,” the complaint reads. It also states that the only workers who did not have to pay the fees were members of Huaracha’s family.

Part of the first page of the criminal complaint against José Ramón Huaracha.

Erin Nealy Cox, U.S. attorney for the United States District Court for the Northern District of Texas, told Univision that Huaracha later pressed workers to “keep the $1,000+ payments secret, both from Larsen Farms and from federal law enforcement,” which “violated the laws surrounding the H-2A program.”

Guerra, the former human resources manager, was among those interviewed by investigators from the Labor Department. According to the complaint, she told them she believed Huaracha charged half the fee when workers were still in Mexico and the rest once they were brought to the United States with their visas.

Other employees said they and several family members paid between $1,000 and $1,200 to be included on the supervisor’s list. One of them, identified as H-2A worker No.4 in the criminal complaint, was contacted directly by José Ramón Huaracha to discuss the job opportunity and the “understanding that [the worker] would be ‘helping’ José Ramón Huaracha by making a $1,000 payment to him.”

“Then people began to complain: ‘No, they’re charging us for this, that and the other,’” he recalls. “The problem has always been there but I can’t control that. It’s something we tried to avoid, but I don’t know.”

While manager of the plant in Dalhart for five years, he said that he always asked his highest-ranking employees—including supervisors, such as his brother José Ramón Huaracha—not to charge workers fees. “’Apart from the fact that it’s not right, we’re just going to create conflict and it’s not going to end well for you,’” he said he warned them. “I didn’t think we were charging, but as I said before, I’m not sure.”

Hired workers come from Sinaloa, Sonora, Zacatecas, Jalisco, Veracruz, Michoacán and Guanajuato, where Antonio is from. He traveled to the United States when he was 20 years old after being recommended by cousins who were already at the Idaho potato processor; like José Ramón Huaracha, he also came undocumented to work and help his family in Mexico.

Antonio Huaracha acknowledged in a telephone interview in April 2020 that he had begun to pay closer attention to the rumors about his brother over the previous six months. “We have brought people here, to human resources, to ask them if they participated in this type of deal, if they were charged to work. Until now we haven’t had luck with anyone.”

The company’s president, Blaine Larsen, also heard similar comments “possibly three to six years ago.” Then they resurfaced this spring. Recently, he tried to confirm the rumors among employees: at least two people spoke to him about the matter, but no one presented evidence and therefore he didn’t believe them. “I have a hard time determining who is lying and who is telling the truth.”

“I would like to get to the bottom of this … I have been investigating,” Larsen said. “I can give you names, like a woman who told me she had proof and never showed me evidence. And this was two years ago. The rumor has been there.”

But he says he doesn’t understand why workers are so scared to denounce José Ramón Huaracha or the culture of fear in the company.

“I can’t believe Ramón went behind Antonio like that,” Larsen said, exonerating the general manager. “I think Ramón is dishonest and immoral, in my opinion. For me, Antonio and Ramón are like night and day.”

On several occasions, Larsen asked Univision to help him contact the sources cited in this report, promising there would be no retaliation against the workers.

José Duarte was offered the same salary, but one day one of his supervisors took him to the field, 30 miles from the plant in Dalhart, and informed him they wouldn’t be paying him what they had offered. Instead, he would receive $10.50 an hour, a more than 40% reduction. He had to resign.

The company denied all such claims and the case was resolved with an agreement between the parties.

Outside of the lawsuit, Univision Noticias spoke with at least six people who claim that even bathroom breaks are limited to two per day. They also say that they receive warnings or are sent home without pay as punishment for drinking water during the day or wanting to rest when their shift is over, for receiving visitors that haven’t been authorized by the company or for refusing to comply with an order. Most of the interviewees implicated Xavier López Palacios, who ran the warehouse.

Several employees with H-2A visas say they are observed by informants, who report their comings and goings to company bosses. Some have received warnings as a result.

José Ramón Huaracha denied that claim. He says that he went to visit those in his care once a month: “Every time they reported that someone didn’t come to do the cleaning … I went and spoke with that person [so] that they would get to work, to do what they had to do.”

Pablo says that they take a Larsen bus to shop at the closest Walmart, more than an hour from their homes. If they don’t return on the same school bus, they’re punished.

That vehicle is essentially the only means they have to leave home on any given weekend.

The president of the company said he was “surprised” to learn of such abuses against employees and said he couldn’t believe his supervisors acted in this way.

Palacios was fired in June. Larsen explained that several workers singled him out for sexual harassment and said he forced workers to give him money. In an interview in late April, the former supervisor denied these allegations to Univision: “That is totally false,” he said.

On July 21, López Palacios was arrested and the U.S. Government charged him with fraud and misuse of visas, permits and other documents. The criminal complaint explained that he was using a false ID and social security number; his real name is Gregorio Fernando López Martínez. He is now in the custody of Immigration and Custom Enforcement in Amarillo, Texas.

“Lopez Martinez admitted that he had presented [the documents] for employment at the business, that he knew they were counterfeit, and that he received them from a friend,” the complaint reads.

There are no anti-trafficking activists or non-governmental organizations in Dalhart to assist immigrants. There aren’t any pro bono law offices where workers can have a simple consultation. The closest such help is in Amarillo, an hour and a half drive south. But almost no one knows who to call or where to go, and if they did, they don’t have the time to make the trip.

The Buffett-McCain Institute to Combat Modern Slavery is one of two organizations beginning to delve into labor trafficking in the Texas Panhandle. A team of four people go directly to the homes and workplaces of farm employees to explain workers’ rights and listen to their concerns. Not everyone opens the door, though.

Gonzalo Martínez de Vedia, program manager of the organization, explains that the chances of a complaint for labor trafficking ending in favor of the victim are slim.

In the Texas Panhandle, he says, local police “don’t have the resources or the knowledge to understand that what is happening when someone reports that they were threatened or forced on the job is a federal crime.”

Consequently, workers know that if they denounce, their exploiters will not be punished.

In practice, the victims’ lack of trust is clearly evident in statistics from the Sheriff’s Office in Dallam County, where Larsen Farms is located, and from the Dalhart Police. Both say they haven’t dealt with a single reported case of labor trafficking.

Sheriff Shane Stevenson says his office only deals with reports of theft in homes and businesses, or drug crimes.

When their four agents go out to patrol, day or night, they may take one or two calls on such issues; never for complaints of forced labor or labor trafficking.

“If somebody is the victim of a crime, we want to know about it. We’re going to do everything we can to help [them]. If they are undocumented, we’ll treat them like anybody else.”

But the office would need at least one of their agents to speak or understand Spanish, and the person who did resigned a few months ago.

If someone makes an accusation and in the process of investigating the case officers notice the accuser is undocumented, they may contact Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and send the case to federal authorities. At that point the immigrant could be at risk of deportation.

“The undocumented workers need to learn to trust us,” says Conner, although he acknowledges that there’s “a fine line because not only are we entrusted to enforce state law, we also have to abide by federal law.”

If a person is a victim of labor trafficking and reports a crime, for example, the police will request documents to verify their identity. If the documents belong to another person, they can request more paperwork to verify the information. If the victim doesn’t provide that paperwork, the police can call immigration authorities to have the person prosecuted for false documentation.

Police may also call immigration authorities if the person is undocumented.

That’s how victims often end up being the ones implicated by the justice system.

But Conner defends the practice, saying state law simply requires him to verify a person’s identity and that failing to do so could have consequences: “I’m not going to lose my job.”

She challenges the police chief’s position by explaining that when it comes to trafficking victims, federal and even state law has exceptions to protect these people and provide them with legal immigration status—a visa for victims of crime or human trafficking—while a case is resolved, a process that can take years.

“A person’s status is irrelevant to me as a prosecutor if a crime is being committed in my jurisdiction and I know I can do something,” she says. “My job is to seek justice for that victim.”

“I think they are interpreting the law incorrectly,” she says. “They don’t see a victim of trafficking but someone who entered the country illegally and that’s why they pass it along to the federal immigration system,” she explains, pointing out that the issue came up constantly while she worked as a prosecutor.

Instead of punishing the victim, she says, police should try to obtain the greatest possible burden of evidence to determine if a crime was indeed committed, to be able to initiate an investigation, formulate a criminal or civil case and thus “get the trafficker off the streets” and prevent him or her from exploiting more people.

Pablo almost reported his supervisor’s abuse months back, but over time he changed his mind. Above all, he just wants to protect his job.

He has never discussed the issue, not even with his family. At the United States consulate in Mexico, where he got his visa stamped, he was given a paper with his rights and told that he could file a complaint. But he didn’t dare speak up when he returned the following year.

Katherine Porterfield, clinical psychologist with the Bellevue/New York University Program for Survivors of Torture, explains that those who are abused to the limit of trauma are “living in a condition of inescapable threat,” from which the body reacts by blocking fearful memories and losing the ability to ask for help.

That’s why it’s so difficult for them to talk about what they experienced—or experience—during an investigation: “We can’t really expect that people who’ve been through severe trauma will then be able to speak up and talk about it. Especially when they’re still in a situation of ongoing threat.”

That’s the case with Pablo. “The trauma is cumulative, there are different injuries in different places. Each trauma opens the previous trauma,” says Basualdo, pointing out that fear often produces paralysis. “If there is fear of reporting, there is abuse. If there is fear, there is trauma.”

Pablo says he feels trapped at Larsen without his own space or the freedom to move around. Still, the opportunity to earn a salary in dollars makes him think he would still pay a visa “fee” to come to the United States.

Since April 19, when José Ramón Huaracha resigned, Pablo and other employees stopped paying their biweekly fee. Pablo continued to live in fear of losing his job despite Huaracha’s resignation and his arrest by federal agents, along with the arrest of Xavier López Palacios.